Home
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Nine men, nine fandoms, nine unconnected universes... except, perhaps, for a love of one's home, whatever shape it might take. Drabble series featuring Ax, The Doctor, Sirius, Mal, Han, Perrin, Boromir, Vimes, and Silk.


**Title:** Home  
**Rating:** G  
**Wordcount:** 1135  
**Fandom:** The Ultimate Fandom of Ultimate Destiny- Er, about half the characters Warg has ever lusted after- Well... *Deep breath* Animorphs/Dr. Who/Potterverse/Firefly/Star Wars/Wheel of Time/Lord of the Rings/Discworld/Belgariad... Whew. Yeah. That's all. While not a crossover, per se, there are too many individual fandoms here to list it as anything but a Book/TV crossover. It should be easy enough to get the fic without knowing all the characters, but if you want to know who's who, I'll be happy to explain.  
**Disclaimer:** None of the boys are mine. This series of interlocking parallel drabbles is what happens if you try to think too hard about the workings of your inner fangirl.

* * *

_Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill_  
It's about devotion, really. He's long been abandoned to this little blue world. There's little chance he'll ever be able to return, but he keeps his oaths. The spirit of them, at least, even if he does take the blame for his brother's mistakes and purposely arms the others with his culture's weapons and knowledge. In fact, he rather likes those mistakes. They've given him something of a home here. They've earned his devotion, too.

_The Doctor_  
He's been long abandoned to this little blue world. They could barely tolerate him while they were still alive, but that doesn't make it any easier to be the last. So he twiddles with his ship and his screwdriver, the other last remaints of his home, and runs. He runs to tomorrow, just to make sure it's still there. He brings what's left of home along, even if he's too proud to admit it.

_Sirius Black_  
They could barely tolerate him while they were still alive, but it doesn't make it any easier to be the last. A fool, they called him, a traitor. He paces through the old house, feeling their lingering prescence. He's free again. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he is completely free. He has his friends, and they believe in him. They don't care about his history. But he's still not home, despite the deed to the old house that is now in his name. Home is in the past, and he can only pace restlessly into the future.

_Malcolm Reynolds_  
A fool, they called him, a traitor. He is a criminal, and knows it in his bones, but he has never betrayed that which he stands for. Perhaps he is a fool; he has held on to his anger for far too long. There's a comfort in the old enmities, an easy division between those who are right and those who are in the wrong. But late at night, with the cramped cattle lowing over the sounds of the engine humming to the empty blackness beyond, that dividing line gets awfully thin. He closes his eyes, and takes what peace he can from the ship.

_Han Solo_  
He is a criminal, and knows it in his bones, but he has never betrayed that which he stands for. It's still a surprise when the others trust him. The thing he has always stood the most for has always been himself. He wouldn't have gotten far without his ship though, or his copilot. He doesn't like to admit it, but he probably wouldn't even still be alive if it hadn't been for that crazy, superstitious farmboy with his delusions of grandeur and harebrained schemes for their sorry excuses of rescue missions, either. Despite himself and his clanky old ship, he's caught himself becoming respectable. He has found himself gaining a home.

_Perrin Aybara_  
It's still a surprise when the others trust him. He doesn't know if he clings tighter to the past, or if his circumstances do so to him. They follow him either way, through sand, snow, or bloodbath. Fear, he supposed cynically, might have a good deal to do with it too, but for now, it is enough that they follow. His old homeland has changed greatly since he first left it. But then again, so has his family, and so has he. He sniffs the chill air, snaps the reins, and leads them on.

_Boromir Hurin II_  
He doesn't know if he clings tighter to the past, or if his circumstances do so to him. All he ever wanted was what was best for his city. He used to think that that was a simple goal, if a very difficult and costly one. He didn't mind; never had; he would give up everything for it. But now there are too many choices, too many things that could go wrong. He has his family to look out for, after all. Surely, it couldn't be as dangerous as they made it out to be. Even if it meant risking his mind, surely it would be worth using just once, if he could use it to protect his people and end this threat once and for all. Then, they could sort out these other matters, peacefully, for once. Right now, things were all too confusing. Caring for his home had never been easy.

_Sir Samuel Vimes_  
All he ever wanted was what was best for his city. The streets beneath him might not be pretty, but they were home. His feet knew the route; his boots could practically do this beat without him. It felt good to be out in them, though, and feel the smoggy afternoon air upon his face and the cracked cobblestones through his shoes. Right now, this was where he was meant to be. He checked his engraved watch. Four-thirty: he still had an hour and a half left before six o'clock. For that hour and a half, these streets were home once more.

_Prince Kheldar_  
The streets beneath him might not be pretty, but they were home. It was about devotion, really. He had never been very taken with the local weather or landscape, but the harsh clime had allowed his people to flourish. The nearly barren land had given rise to fertile minds and clever fingers. Of all the places he had visited, fled, or been chased out of and told not to return to under any circumstances, there were none quite like home. Perhaps that was why he kept sticking his weasel-like nose into other environs.

*  
The forest endures, despite the burns from wildly fired Dracon beams and elephant-toppled trees. The TARDIS shakes and groans threateningly with every journey it takes, but it never breaks down completely past all chance of repair. Slowly, the old house empties, save for the ghosts of memories and the large portrait in the hall, a bedsheet still thrown over it to muffle the lady's complaints. Serenity sails on, repainted and renewed. Despite the better availability of new parts and new hazards, the Millenium Falcon still manages to totter through the galaxy, powered by curses, prayers, kicks, and sheer blind luck. Two Rivers lies practically empty now, but an air of expectation lies over the little village. Gondor's wait is not so hopeful anymore, though a little shaft of light yet shines through the darkening clouds. High above the Ankh, an extremely battered, chewed upon book awaits six o'clock and the sound of running boots. Drasnia warms slightly with the spring thaw, but it has never been the temperature that matters. It is the heat of pride that warms nine sets of veins, the fires of devotion that comfort twelve hearts, the spark of competetency that shines in ten pairs of eyes, and the thoughts of home that occupy nine minds.


End file.
